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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119393">'tis the damn season</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk'>amscray_punk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Woodvale, NY [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Holidays, Idiots, Inspired by Music, M/M, Romance, THEY WERE HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS, as always, idk why that's in all caps but that's also how i feel about it so it stays, this is like a gay hallmark movie tbh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:46:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,686</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Race left his small hometown in New York for LA after graduation and never looked back. That is, until his brother gets engaged and asks him to come home for the weekend. </p><p>*Yes, another fic inspired by a Taylor Swift song and no I'm not sorry. She brings out the romantic in me (like that takes a lot of effort hshdkd) so here's a fluffy holiday romance fic because of it!</p><p>**Rating for language.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Woodvale, NY [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>92</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i'm stayin' at my parents' house</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi guys. So I already had the medieval holiday fic planned, and then Taylor Swift released evermore and I lost my damn mind over this song, so. Here we are with yet another AU. </p><p>The BIGGEST of shout outs to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/firehearte/pseuds/firehearte">firehearte</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracetrackhiggins/pseuds/gracetrackhiggins">gracetrackhiggins</a>. Any good idea I have is instantly made exponentially better by the two of you and your big, gorgeous brains. I can’t thank you enough for your support and collaboration, not just on this AU but also like, seriously, on this AU because it wouldn’t be half of what it is without you two. Thanks for sharing your ideas and your babies, I hope I’ve done them justice. I love you both SO MUCH!! Happy Hanukkah to you!! (It counts even if I don't get it done in time okay? Okay)</p><p>(Seriously go read their fics if for some reason you haven't already, and if you have go read them again because they're both so insanely talented)</p><p>Also if you haven't listened to the song I really recommend it, but at the very least <a href="https://genius.com/Taylor-swift-tis-the-damn-season-lyrics">here are the lyrics</a> so you can get a feel for where this came from. Happy holidays and pls enjoy 🥰🥰</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Race isn’t sure what he expected on his first morning back home after five years away. But opening his eyes to reveal a pair of big, brown eyes mere inches from his face is decidedly <em>not </em>it. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus <em>fuck</em>!” He yelps, scrambling into a sitting position against the arm of the couch as he tugs his blanket up to his chin. It’s a pointless gesture, he’s fully clothed, but he’s surprised and his heart is pounding out of his chest and he’s so tired he’s almost dizzy. An amused giggle reaches his ears and as his eyes focus, he realizes there’s a teenage girl sitting on the coffee table, watching him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. He opens his mouth to speak again when an ever-familiar voice floats through the doorway from the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“Language,” Medda’s voice holds that maternal weight that brokers no argument, and Race sinks down against the couch almost unconsciously.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Mama,” He mumbles, willing his cheeks not to burn, not to be embarrassed in front of this teenager, this <em>child </em>who sits there staring smugly at him, head cocked to the side like she’s looking at him through a microscope. He bristles under her gaze as he starts to become coherent and he’s about to ask who the hell she thinks she is when she speaks again.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you really Anthony Higgins?”</p><p> </p><p>“I–”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Cause I’ve seen your picture on the wall, and Mama talks about you all the time but you look different than in the movies.” Race can hardly begin to form a response, his jetlagged brain slow and sluggish as he studies her face. She’s young, maybe sixteen—or maybe she just <em>wants </em>people to think she’s sixteen, and she’s really a couple years younger. Race likes her immediately. </p><p> </p><p>“To be fair,” He says, and he sounds as groggy as he feels as he runs a hand through his hair, surely sticking on end after his long trip. “I usually have a team of people making me look pretty before a shoot. You’re getting the real deal.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” She nods, the look of sage understanding only slightly out of place on her young features. “Like no filter.” Race snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>She studies him another moment, and Race is just beginning to feel a little uncomfortable under her intense gaze when two identical young boys come tearing into the room, high-pitched squeals of laughter all but drowning out Medda’s exasperated shouts from the kitchen. She appears in the doorway, looking far too tired for how early it is—God, it <em>has </em>to be early, as awful as Race feels. He didn’t think he had <em>that </em>many drinks on the plane, but he's been wrong before.</p><p> </p><p>“Smalls, leave Tony alone, he’s still on west coast time,” She says, zeroing in on the twins, who are now huddled behind the couch, still giggling, presumably sharing whatever contraband they’ve managed to swipe from the kitchen. The girl—Smalls—lets out the long-suffering sigh that comes so naturally to teenagers, nearly rolling her eyes before she gets a glimpse of her mother and snaps to attention. “The twins–”</p><p> </p><p>“On it, Mama,” Smalls assures her, standing up and cracking her neck before shooting Race a truly impressive, shit-eating grin. “Nice to meet ya, Anthony.”</p><p> </p><p>“Call me Race,” He tells her with a matching grin, watching as she creeps around the back of the couch and barely stifling a laugh when the twins screech in unison and take off down the hall, Smalls hot on their little heels. </p><p> </p><p>Medda watches them go with fondness before crossing the room to drop onto the couch. She looks exhausted, and it’s only—Race peeks at his phone; God, <em>seven-thirty</em> am? He groans, trying hard not to think about what time that is in California as he tucks his feet underneath him and scoots closer to her, drawn in by her warmth, her ever-comforting presence. She folds him into her arms as easily as she did when he was a child, and the well of emotion that surges in his chest is one he’ll attribute to jetlag, but really it just feels <em>so good</em> to be held again, held by someone who knows him, knows all of him. He sighs contentedly, tucking his head into her shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you, baby?”</p><p> </p><p>“M’sleepy, Ma,” He mumbles, warm and safe and honestly, he could drift off again, right here. Her deep chuckle rumbles in his ear as she squeezes him tighter against her.</p><p> </p><p>“I know you are,” Her voice is so soothing that he forgets, for a moment, that this house is never peaceful, not really. As if on cue, the twins come screaming down the hall, looping around the couch and heading back for the hallway, where Smalls and a teenage boy intercept them, each wrapping one squealing, wriggling boy in their arms and marching them back toward the bedrooms. Medda sighs and Race feels his heart clench in his chest; she must be so tired. “Sorry about your wake-up call,” She pauses. “And not having a bed to spare.”</p><p> </p><p>“No worries, Mama,” He assures her, lifting his head to peck her cheek. “Wouldn’t be home without a few screeching littles.” She laughs softly, shaking her head fondly.</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose you’re right. Well, since you’re up, would you like some breakfast? I can whip up–”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah,” He interrupts, shaking his head as he sits up straight, stretching his long arms toward the ceiling. “Not hungry just yet. Besides,” He says, picking up his phone and swiping distractedly through his notifications. “You’ve got enough on your plate, what with the party and all. Why don’t I go get us some coffee?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, that’d be great, honey,” Medda’s relieved voice gives away her exhaustion and she’s on her feet again already, looking distractedly around the room. “I had a cup made, but God only knows where I left it–”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” Race assures her, standing to fold the blanket and lay it neatly across the back of the couch. “Just take a little rest, I’ll be back in no time.”</p><p> </p><p>“You wanna take the car? The keys–”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah,” He says again, grabbing his bag from the floor and leaning down slightly to kiss the top of her head before he goes to the bathroom to freshen up. “I can walk, it’s close enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” He nods, squinting at the early-morning sun streaming through the bay window behind the couch. “It’ll be good for me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The walk to Jacobi’s is short, but it’s December in New York and he hasn’t had to dress for these temperatures in <em>years</em>, and it shows. He clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering as he shoves his hands further into the pockets of his too-thin jacket, grateful that he at least brought a beanie to cover his ears. </p><p> </p><p>Almost everything in his hometown is within walking distance from his mother’s house, and he supposes he should be thankful for that, now. The town is small and quaint in a way that makes it hard to believe sometimes that it's only a little more than an hour outside of New York City. It seems almost like a movie set, really, straight out of one of those cheesy holiday romance movies Race wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Although, he muses as he takes in the deserted town square, tastefully decorated for the holidays, it <em>would </em>make a pretty good backdrop…</p><p> </p><p>And maybe that’s why Jack’s decided to have his engagement party here, at home, rather than his fancy new apartment in the city. Race chuckles at the thought of his older foster brother, his hotshot journalist fiancée and their effortlessly chic Manhattan apartment hosting his ragtag bunch of hometown friends, his collection of rowdy siblings that seems to grow by the day and he barely keeps that chuckle from turning to an outright laugh. And as much as Race enjoys ‘winter’ temperatures not dipping below sixty degrees, as much as he’s convinced himself his mother is too busy to notice that he’s skipping out on Christmas at home <em>again</em>, when Jack had called and asked him to come, he couldn’t say no. So he’s here, he’s home for the first time in years—and it definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that, also for the first time in years, he doesn’t have a project lined up to shoot–and he’s determined to make the best of it.</p><p> </p><p>He jogs the last few steps as the coffee shop comes into view, eager for the warmth and—ah, yes, that heavenly coffee smell greets him the second he steps through the threshold and he already feels more awake. The twinkle of the bell that announces his arrival drives home those small-town Hallmark-movie vibes and he grins a little, almost in spite of himself. The shop is empty, aside from an elderly couple seated at a table near the window, each deeply focused on their respective sections of the newspaper, and Race rubs his hands together as he approaches the counter. He wonders distantly how long he can drag out this transaction to take advantage of the warmth when he’s interrupted by the teenage employee behind the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning,” He greets him, and he seems to be at least <em>trying </em>to inject some customer service cheer into his voice. “What can I get started for ya?” </p><p> </p><p>“Uh,” Race stutters, admittedly taken aback at the prospect of being the only one in line. He clears his throat with a small frown, looking over the barista’s curly brown hair to read the menu. “Can I have a minute to decide?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, just let me know when you’re ready,” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” Race convinces himself that the kid only sounds bored and annoyed because he’s, well, a teenager in a coffee shop at eight am, and focuses instead on figuring out what to order. Medda just wants a <em>large</em> drip coffee with a splash of cream, but Race is torn. He’s normally an iced coffee guy, preferring to inject his caffeine directly into his veins as quickly as humanly possible rather than wait for it to cool. But he’s fucking <em>cold </em>and the thought of a nice, hot latte sounds pretty good right about now–</p><p> </p><p>“Finch, I thought I asked you to rotate the cre– holy shit, <em>Racer</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh, hell no.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Race’s blood turns to ice in his veins—appropriate, at least, complete the transformation—and his heart is instantly trying to beat out of his ribcage as he drags his eyes down from the board behind the counter, knowing exactly what he’ll see. There he is. Spot Conlon, Race’s oldest friend aside from Jack; Spot Conlon, Race’s high school sweetheart, star running back of the football team; Spot Conlon, with a manager pin on his chest and a look of mingled surprise and confusion on his face, handsome as ever. </p><p> </p><p>“Holy shit,” Race breathes, because it’s all he can do to repeat the sentiment back to him as he wills his jaw not to drop. He should’ve prepared for this. Should’ve prepared for running into old friends, and he thought he had, but truthfully, nothing could have prepared him to come face to face with <em>Spot freaking Conlon</em> at eight am, jetlagged and (okay, yes) a little hungover. He tries not to think about the ‘no filter’ crack that his new little sister made, and his lips tug into a smile. It comes easily, because he <em>is </em>happy to see him; he always is, even though it’s been years. There never have been any hard feelings between them, even when they graduated high school and Race headed west and Spot stayed.</p><p> </p><p>It’s the teenager–Finch, apparently—who snaps them both out of it when he pointedly clears his throat, clapping Spot on the shoulder in a way that makes Race think there isn’t much in the world that he’s afraid of. </p><p> </p><p>“You good, boss?” He asks, voice dripping with sarcasm and Spot swats blindly at him, eyes still fixed on Race. Race feels himself flush and he can only hope that it blends in with the one already high in his cheeks from the cold.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” Spot mutters, shooting him a wide-eyed look that would’ve sent just about any rational person retreating, but Finch beams even as he raises his hands in surrender and slinks to the other end of the counter. Spot seems to have recovered when he looks back to Race, and Race hopes his features display the photogenic nonchalance he’s spent the last five years perfecting—and it all goes right out the window when Spot smirks at him and fuck, his kneecaps are made of jelly. “Racer, what the hell are you doing here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t ya hear?” Race asks, proud of himself for coming up with a quick response. “Jackie got engaged, so my mom’s throwing an engagement-slash-holiday party.”</p><p> </p><p>“Actually, I did hear about that,” Spot says thoughtfully, nodding. Race notices Spot’s twirling an empty cup in his hands, almost like he just needs to keep them busy. “How long are you staying?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just the weekend,” Race says, and for the first time the twinge of regret in his voice is sincere. For the first time, the prospect of spending longer than a weekend in this tiny town isn’t so bad. “But you’ll be at the party, right? It’s tomorrow night.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Course, wouldn’t miss it,” Spot nods again, and Race feels his heartrate pick up as he watches Spot look him over; feels his mouth go a little dry when he looks back up and grins. “You look great.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Race laughs, bringing a hand to the back of his neck (almost like he just needs to keep it busy) as he feels that flush creeping up again. “Thanks, Spotty. Ya don’t look too bad, yourself.” </p><p> </p><p>It’s an understatement, they both know it is—and it’s not a surprise to Race that Spot looks incredible. He <em>does </em>follow him on Instagram, and while Spot doesn’t post photos of himself very often, when he does… Race swallows, unable to shake the thought that this all feels so, <em>so</em> familiar; that the butterflies in his stomach have just been asleep, for a few years, and they’re starting to stir, to realize they’re back home again.</p><p> </p><p>The bell twinkles at the door, forcing Race’s attention back to the fact that he’s still standing at the counter, and he still hasn’t ordered. <em>Shit. </em>He glances over his shoulder, relieved to see that the bell is just the older couple leaving, but the same thought seems to occur to Spot, because he’s suddenly all business.</p><p> </p><p>“So, what can I getcha?” He asks, scribbling onto the bottom of the cup he’s been twirling and holding it out for Finch to retrieve. “Large house roast with a splash of cream.”</p><p> </p><p>“Medda?” Finch asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Yep,” Spot nods, turning back to Race, who’s still stuck on the fact that, apparently, both Spot and Finch have his mother’s coffee order memorized. Spot chuckles but doesn’t offer an explanation. “Iced coffee, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh, yeah, um, usually,” Race manages, and it’s genuinely like he’s a teenager again, unsure of himself and thrown off by Spot’s sudden reemergence in his life. He clears his throat and presses on, willing himself to sound normal. “Just, it’s pretty fucking cold, so I was thinking about maybe getting something hot? But I dunno what–”</p><p> </p><p>Spot chuckles, cutting him off with a hand. “I got it,” </p><p> </p><p>Race can’t help but grin. “Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot nods and grins back and yep, Race is a teenager again. “Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>Spot scribbles onto the bottom of another cup and holds it out for Finch, taking Medda’s cup from him and passing it to Race. Race sets it on the counter and reaches for his wallet, but Spot waves him off. Race frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Racer, please,” Spot scoffs, looking mildly offended. Race shrugs, taking a few twenty dollar bills out of his wallet, anyway, and dropping them into the tip jar before Spot can stop him.</p><p> </p><p>“Holy sh–”</p><p> </p><p>“Finch,” Spot warns, and Race thinks maybe this kid has a hint of self-preservation, after all, because he purses his lips and hands Race’s cup to him over the counter. Spot stares hard at Finch for a moment longer before the kid seems to catch on to whatever Spot’s trying to say and does a little twirl, heading for the far end of the counter again. Race snorts. He’s known Finch for all of five minutes, and even he knows he's only pretending to clean while he eavesdrops. </p><p> </p><p>“Um, thanks, Spotty,” Race says softly, gesturing to the coffees with a slight tilt of his head. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Spot acknowledges, squinting a little before adding, “But don’t get used to it. Next time, I’m charging you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’d charge Miss Medda?” Race gasps, feigning outrage and clutching his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“You need your ears checked?” Spot scoffs. “I said I’m charging <em>you, </em>not Miss Medda.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right, of course,” Race laughs, reaching for the cups. “Well, anyway, thanks. I’d better get this home to her before it cools down.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Spot nods, and he looks like he wants to say more—or maybe Race just hopes he does. “See ya tomorrow, Racer.” It’s a simple enough statement, and hell, it’s even true but it’s jarring anyway; throws him right back to a time in his life when he’d heard some variation of those words, in that voice, every single day.</p><p> </p><p>“See ya, Spot.” He nods a goodbye to him and to Finch, who tilts his chin ever so slightly in his direction. He’s halfway to the door when Spot speaks again.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer, wait,”</p><p> </p><p>Race turns on his heel, eyebrows raised. </p><p> </p><p>“You busy tonight?” </p><p> </p><p>Race shakes his head. “No, I mean, I gotta help my mom with party stuff this afternoon, but I’m free tonight. Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“You remember Vince?” Race nods slowly. Of course he remembers him; town this small, it’s nearly impossible to forget people you went to school with for twelve years. “He’s having a bonfire tonight. Should be plenty of familiar faces, if you wanna maybe, I dunno, swing by for a little bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Race says, admittedly surprised. “I–”</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you weren’t going to that,” Finch pipes up from his place at the end of the counter, where he’s not even pretending to clean anymore; just dragging a rag lazily over the surface. Race snorts at the look on Spot’s face as he turns to glare at his employee; Finch smirks and Race realizes he was, in fact, very wrong about the kid’s sense of self-preservation. Amazingly, he continues. “Yeah, I thought you said the party was gonna suck, and that you hate bonfires–”</p><p> </p><p>“And I thought<em> I</em> told <em>you </em>to shut the <em>fu</em>–”</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty,” Race interrupts, fully incapable of paring his grin down to a reasonable level as he fights back laughter. He’s two for two on likeable teenagers today, and he can’t help but think that’s gotta be a record. “I’m staying with my mom. Pick me up at eight?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot’s smile is pretty dazzling, too, as he glances back at Race just long enough to wink before he turns to swat at Finch with a towel. Race is still chuckling when he ducks out the door, beginning the trek back home. The drink Spot made for him is delicious, and it’s already warming him as he walks quickly, mind racing. It’s Friday, he’s back home, and Spot’s taking him to a house party at Vince’s tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Some things never change.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. you could call me 'babe' for the weekend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi hi! Updates are gonna be coming pretty quickly for this fic, because I wanna get it all up before Christmas, so here's chapter two! It's long, sorry, but the next few chapters should be more reasonable in length. Anyway pls enjoy 🥰</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes Race two minutes to find Medda when he arrives back at the house, and another thirty seconds to decide that he’s stepping in. He all but shoves her up the stairs to her room, demanding she take a relaxing bath and insisting that he can handle the kids, and the cleaning, and the errands. She fights him halfheartedly for most of the walk, but when he waves the cup of coffee under her nose, she relents, takes it from him, and disappears into the bathroom. Race smirks when he hears the lock click, and he closes her bedroom door softly behind him.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him five minutes to round up the two teenagers, and a third one he didn’t know about wanders in just as the boy from earlier introduces himself as Jojo. The newcomer gives the name Mush, and Race doesn’t even blink, let alone ask—nicknames are part and parcel of being one of Medda’s kids, and he’s got bigger things to worry about, right now. It takes him thirty seconds to figure out that Smalls is the one in charge, despite her stature that (maybe) betrays the source of <em>her </em>name, and within two more minutes the three have split off through the house to carry out their orders. Smalls is off to clean the upstairs, Mush the downstairs, and Race the kitchen while Jojo entertains the twins in their room. Make that four for four on the teenagers. <em>How the hell?</em></p><p> </p><p>The kitchen is a project, and Race is ready to collapse on the couch by the time he’s done. But instead he takes the to-do list off the fridge, grabs the car keys from the hook, and heads out the back door. The list isn’t long, Medda’s taken care of most everything already, but there are still a few things that can only be bought the day before the party, and it’s the least Race can do. He eyes the coffee shop as he passes; he could <em>really </em>use another cup, but he forces his eyes back on the road and mentally adds coffee to the grocery list, instead.</p><p> </p><p>The store’s only another minute down the road, past the Methodist church and the small high school, the only one in town. Race smiles softly as he passes, his mind reaching back before he has a chance to stop it. Back to when the prospect of a bonfire at Vince’s was enough to keep him going for the whole week; the idea of getting drunk with Jack and their friends, thinking they’re being so sneaky when really it’s a miracle they hadn't gotten caught yet. When Jack and Albert would do keg stands and immediately challenge each other to arm wrestling matches, and Race would grab Spot’s hand and drag him into the woods; when Spot would push him up against the tree and kiss him deep and desperately, like he knew their time together was limited, and dwindling. </p><p> </p><p>And, Race supposes, maybe he did. Race had never been quiet—in general, yes, but in particular about his desire to move out west immediately upon graduation. His friends, his foster siblings, even Medda herself had tried to reason with him. Tried to get through his head that if he wanted to act, he didn’t have to go all the way to Hollywood when they lived so close to the city, already. That yes, he was a pretty good actor but it would be something close to a crime for him to stop dancing, for him to not even <em>try </em>to get on a Broadway stage before heading west. </p><p> </p><p>Race brushed them all off, stubborn and unsatisfied with the idea of being only an hour away from home. And yes, he loved to dance—he still does, and it’s almost like a drug, the way he has to do it, <em>needs </em>to move his body to stay focused, to keep his head above water even though he hasn’t taken a dancing job in years. But Spot never said anything like that, never anything that wasn’t constant, enthusiastic support of Race and his dreams. He sat with him as he researched schools near LA, when he filled out his applications and sent them off; when he opened his acceptance letters and knew, finally <em>knew </em>rather than hoped, that he was leaving.</p><p> </p><p>Race does the shopping in a daze, ticking things off the list with an efficiency that teenage Race would envy, and he smiles a little to himself as he begins the drive home. Home. How easily that word slips back in; it’s not Medda’s, it’s not his mom’s house, it’s home, and he decides not to fight it anymore. He’s home for the weekend and it feels good, and that’s okay, isn’t it? It’s the holidays and he’s home, and Jack’s engaged, there are new kids in the house, and Spot’s picking him up at eight. He’s vaguely aware, as he passes the coffee shop again, that he’s got a stupid grin on his face but he doesn’t fight that anymore, either.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not until he pulls into the driveway that he realizes he forgot to buy coffee.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Spot’s on time. Of course he is.</p><p> </p><p>Race is curled up on the couch by the tree, scrolling absently through Twitter when movement out the bay window catches his eye. He looks up, entirely unable to stop that damn stupid grin that spreads at the sight of Spot’s vintage black pickup truck, sparkling clean as always. He’s opening the door before Spot can knock, shrugging into his coat as he lets Spot get a glimpse of that stupid grin.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m heading out, Mama!” Race calls over his shoulder, trying (again) and failing (again) to ignore just how much this all makes him feel seventeen again. A small <em>thud</em> followed by half-deranged, half-delighted giggles is all he receives in answer, and he feels a small stab of guilt as Medda appears in the doorway to the kitchen, looking distracted, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, baby- oh, Sean!” Her tone shifts immediately to one of pleasant surprise and she crosses the room to sweep Spot into a hug that looks as warm and cozy as Medda herself. She’s still smiling when she pulls back, holding onto Spot’s shoulders. “Look at you, look at you two together. Never thought I’d see this again.”</p><p> </p><p>“That makes two of us, Miss Medda,” Spot replies, unfailingly polite even as he shoots Race a sly wink; Race wishes he could deny the butterflies in his stomach, at that. He frowns as he notices that Spot’s holding something wrapped in what looks like parchment paper out to Medda, who accepts it with a fond pat of Spot’s hand. “I brought those new door signs, too. Let me know if you need me to come hang them up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, honey,” Medda says warmly, reaching one hand down instinctively to pat Mike—or Ike, Race hasn’t yet figured out the trick for telling them apart—on the head as he peeks around her waist.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Spot answers, shifting his gaze back to Race and his tone takes on a distinctly teasing edge. “We’d better get goin’, before this one hops on another plane–”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Kay, that’s enough, time to go,” Race says, putting a hand on Spot’s chest to push him backwards out the door, trying to ignore the hard muscle beneath the soft sweater. Spot laughs as he steps over the threshold, glancing over his shoulder so he doesn’t trip. Race turns back around to hug his mother, breathing in her scent and letting it calm his nerves. Her eyes are twinkling when they part, and he tries not to read into it as he follows Spot out the door. “Don’t wait up, Ma.”</p><p> </p><p>Race’s heart thuds at the wave of nostalgia that rolls through him as he approaches Spot’s truck, countless memories of being sprawled across the bench seat rushing in all at once. The truck smells the same, and the leather seat is soft and easy to sink into as Race buckles his seatbelt. He chuckles as he waves at the five faces watching unabashedly from the bay window as Spot backs out of the driveway. He notices the iced coffee he'd begged for earlier in a text and he grabs it like his life depends on it—it certainly feels that way, anyway—and it's half gone by the time Race turns in his seat, pulls his legs up underneath him and fixes Spot with a quizzical look. Spot glances at him, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.</p><p> </p><p>“What?” He prompts, and Race narrows his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“So you and my mom, like, talk, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot snorts and rolls his eyes, and for a moment Race thinks he isn’t going to answer. But then Spot shrugs a shoulder and sighs, almost wearily. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a small town, Racer.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Race nods, fixing Spot with a disbelieving stare as he drains his coffee. “Weird, then, that she didn’t mention me coming home.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot frowns at that. “Y’know, that <em>is </em>weird,” And he sounds like he means it, like Medda really <em>didn’t </em>tell him, and Race can’t figure out what to make of that. Spot shrugs again. “Guess she had more important things on her mind.” Race scoffs as he drags his eyes away from Spot and watches out the window.</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty, please.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>The party is exactly what he imagined it would be.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a bit of a commotion when he and Spot arrive together, and he supposes he should have expected that. For such a small town, their peers have always been remarkably accepting of them and the other handful of queer kids in their high school. Jack had come out as bi in his sophomore year, and Race remembers the courage it had given him, seeing the way their friends barely batted an eye, the fiercely protective way Medda wrapped Jack in her arms. It had taken Race another year, until he was a sophomore himself, before he could actually spit it out, admit to Spot’s face the way he felt about him. And there’s no memory he can recall that feels more like a scene out of a movie than that one. Tucked safely under the bleachers during a home game, before Spot was on the varsity team, when they were still roughly the same height; neither one of them interested in the game as they stole a few moments of privacy away from the rest of their friends. </p><p> </p><p>When Spot had backed him up against the cold metal with that little half smile, Race had been sure he was about to ruin the best friendship he’d ever had. But he couldn’t trust himself anymore; had bitten his tongue one too many times, always half a second away from blurting out his secret in front of everyone and he just needed to <em>say it</em>. So he blurted it out there, in front of Spot and Spot alone, the words tumbling out so quickly he hardly realized what exactly he’d said. But apparently he'd said the right thing, because he’ll never forget the way Spot’s dark eyes had lingered on his before drifting down to his lips; before he cupped Race’s jaw with his hand and closed the space between them, tipping his chin up ever so slightly to reach Race’s lips with his own. </p><p> </p><p>Race would be lying if he said he hadn’t burned that particular memory into his brain, and it would be an even more egregious lie to say he hasn't thought about it several times since he's been home. It’s even harder now, not to feel like he’s back in high school, when he looks around Vince’s crowded kitchen in the house he inherited from his parents, the same one that held countless parties after spectacular victories or devastating losses on the football field. The same one where their odd mix of friends—the jocks, the theatre kids, and everyone in between—had unanimously voted them kings of their senior prom, well after the actual dance (and after the <em>real </em>king and queen had been crowned, but Race barely remembers who that had been, now). And they’d danced to some cheesy slow song right here in this house, with the furniture pushed back around the edge of the room, Race’s arms slung over Spot’s shoulders even though he had a few inches on him, by then. Ducking down slightly to rest his head on Spot’s chest as they danced and he remembers thinking that there might not be a more comfortable place in the world.</p><p> </p><p>It’s all a bit much, suddenly, and his soft cashmere sweater is just a little too warm. He’s just turning to find the back door that leads to the bonfire when–</p><p> </p><p>“Drink?” Spot’s voice snaps him out of his reverie and he blinks as he accepts the bottle of hard cider Spot’s offering him. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks,” He says, softly, and maybe that’s just what he needs. To just have a drink with an old friend, because really, that’s all this is; just because he’s here with Spot, doesn’t mean he’s <em>here with Spot.</em> So he tips his head back and closes his eyes, willing the too-sweet cider to chase away the disappointment in his stomach. It helps, and for a few minutes it’s easy to separate present Race from high school Race, leaning against the kitchen island with Spot and chatting like they do this every weekend. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me that’s not who I think it is,” </p><p> </p><p>Race nearly chokes on his drink as the words are punctuated with a solid clap to his shoulder that can only come from the host, himself. Race coughs a little as he regains his composure, turning slightly to return a small grin to the wide, drunken one on Vince’s face.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me that’s <em>not </em>Racetrack Higgins,” Vince goes on, even though it very clearly is, in fact, Racetrack Higgins. Race’s grin grows as his eyes roam over his old friend. Vince is handsome as ever, the pale blue of his fitted sweater complementing both his dark skin and his impressive physique. Race supposes he should have expected it from the former star quarterback-turned-history-teacher-and-football-coach, but it’s still a pleasant surprise.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright, Vin, it’s not,” Spot drawls, eyes sparkling with amusement as Vince pulls him in for a tight hug, as if <em>he’s </em>the one who’s been gone all these years. Race braces himself but he’s still not quite ready for the force of Vince’s hug, but it feels nice, too; he’s suddenly having trouble remembering the last time he had this many hugs in one day. Vince is clearly already drunk, but he’s having a good time and it shows in the stupid smile on his face as he shakes his head, taking them in.</p><p> </p><p>“Spot Conlon and Racetrack Higgins back in my house together, <em>man</em>,” Vince barks a laugh as he passes them to duck into the fridge and grab another beer. He looks them over again as he leans against the closed door, looking a little unsteady on his feet. “Just like old times, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Race doesn’t have time to come up with an appropriate response to that, and maybe he’s a little grateful that Vince keeps talking, apparently not noticing the way Race’s eyes dart to the back door again.</p><p> </p><p>“S’pose I should ask you for an autograph now, eh Higgins?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, I don’t do autographs,” Race shoots back and oh, it’s surprisingly easy to dig out that smile, that back-pocket smile that shows off his dimples and he lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Be happy to take a selfie with ya, though.”</p><p> </p><p>Vince is laughing again and maybe there’s a little sincerity in Race’s smile, now as he glances back over at Spot, surprised but pleased to see he’s watching him. <em>Just like old times.</em> Race tips the bottle up to finish it off as Vince makes his way through the room, and it’s the way the words <em>Hollywood </em>and <em>movie star</em> drift over the crowd that makes Race slip his hand into Spot’s—he squeezes back instantly—and makes his feet take him to the back door. Spot grabs their coats from the hook on the way, and Race only drops Spot’s hand long enough to shrug into his coat and scout a place for them on one of the logs around the fire. Spot stops by the cooler long enough to grab them another round before he joins him on the log, popping the tops off both bottles and handing one to Race. Spot’s amusement is almost palpable and Race doesn’t even realize he’s scowling until Spot chuckles beside him.</p><p> </p><p>“C’mon, you had to expect some of that,”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“That,” Spot shrugs, nodding his head in the direction of the house. “The Hollywood stuff. You’re kind of a big deal around here, y’know.”</p><p> </p><p>Race sighs, dropping his head to stare at the ground between his feet. </p><p> </p><p>“I mean, you should see the lifesize cardboard cutout of you at the dance center–”</p><p> </p><p>“Spot–”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s lifesize, anyway, hard to tell–”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my God–”</p><p> </p><p>“Says ‘Home of Film Star Anthony Higgins’ and everything–”</p><p> </p><p>“Spot I am <em>begging </em>you to stop talking,” Race groans into his hands, making a whimper of acknowledgement when Spot takes his drink from him and sets it safely on the ground. Spot’s still laughing softly but he doesn’t say more, and Race scoots a little closer until their thighs are pressed together and he can drop his head on Spot’s shoulder. Spot’s quiet for another moment, and Race can tell he’s weighing his words carefully.</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously, though, everyone here is really proud of you. You should know that,” It does feel good, warm in Race’s chest and he <em>is </em>glad Spot says it. He just wishes there wasn’t an undercurrent of guilt in his stomach when he thinks about everyone he left at home; thinks about how almost none of them came to visit him in California, and he can't even really blame them. It's a long trip. “It’s been sorta fun, you know, keeping up with all of your accomplishments from home. Always knew you’d make it, Racer.”</p><p> </p><p>Race loops an arm through Spot’s, holding his bicep tight against his chest as he snuggles closer, focusing on nothing but the warmth of Spot’s proximity and his words, the pride he doesn’t need to speak because Race can hear it in his voice. </p><p> </p><p>“Did I, though?” Race doesn’t really mean to say it out loud, but he does and there’s no taking it back, now. </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno, Racer, ask one of your shiny awards sitting on Medda’s shelf,” Spot deadpans, and Race knows it should make him laugh, should make him curious why Spot even knows about that shelf, but it feels more like a dig; like a reminder of the people he left behind and the trinkets they remember him by. Race hums in response and grabs his drink from the ground, taking a long swig. He should maybe slow down a little; he hasn’t eaten much today, and he’s still pretty tired. But the fire’s warm and Spot’s warmer and maybe that’s why he finally asks the question he’s never allowed himself to vocalize before.</p><p> </p><p>“Why’d you stay?” </p><p> </p><p>Race can’t see Spot’s face, but he’d bet money that his eyebrows lift the slightest bit before he answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Why wouldn’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>And Race doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to dig up those old thoughts, the ones that made it so hard to sleep those first few months of undergrad, but he’s halfway there already, isn’t he? He’s always wondered why Spot didn’t go with him. Why he never even asked if Race wanted him to. </p><p> </p><p>But instead he lifts his head and says, “That’s a non-answer.” </p><p> </p><p>Spot’s thinking, Race can see that in the lines of his face as he contemplates the fire, and he keeps his mouth shut while he waits. </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno, Racer, I just never felt the need to leave like you did,” He shrugs the shoulder Race isn’t clinging to, dragging his eyes from the fire to focus on Race instead. “I like it here. It’s comfortable, I have a job that I don’t hate. It pays the bills, gives me plenty of free time to do what I love,” He pauses for a moment, raking his eyes over Race’s face before turning back to the fire. “There are people here who need me.”</p><p> </p><p>Race bites down on the words that want to escape, bites down on <em>what if I needed you?</em> He tucks it away for another time, pulls out <em>comfortable </em>instead and grunts.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d hate to be comfortable,” He mutters, hand tightening infinitesimally around Spot’s arm when the fire pops and showers their feet with sparks. Spot snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s obvious,”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s <em>that </em>supposed to mean?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot glances at him out the corner of his eye almost incredulously. “It means that it’s pretty clear you’re not comfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” Race sits up, pulling his arm out of Spot’s so he can get a good look at him. “What do you mean? I’m comfortable with where I <em>am</em>, if that’s what you mean.” He punctuates the statement with another long drink, and he’s having trouble remembering how many he’s had, now.</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse me?” Race sputters, coughing into his elbow in his surprise. Spot shrugs a shoulder, tipping his bottle up and taking a long, unhurried drink. Race clenches his jaw as he waits impatiently for him to speak again.</p><p> </p><p>“I said, bullshit, Racer,” His voice, quiet and even, is for Race and Race alone to hear but he bristles anyway. “You’re miserable.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know whatcha talkin’ about,” Race grumbles, swirling the cider in his near-empty bottle. He stares into the fire, letting his eyes become unfocused and it’s Spot’s snort of amusement that breaks his trance. He trains his glare on him again. “Something funny?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Spot nods, and he does look amused. At least, until he focuses those eyes on Race again and Race can see the disappointment in them, and any hope he had of not being completely, utterly <em>seen </em>is gone in an instant. Their gazes stay locked for another moment before Spot lifts his shoulder in another shrug and stands, heading for the cooler. “But you don’t wanna hear it.”</p><p> </p><p>Race waits, fidgeting, for Spot to grab them new drinks. Damn him. <em>Damn</em> him for knowing just what to say to set his mind racing, questioning and second guessing his own thoughts, his own emotions. He's not miserable; how could he be? He's successful, on his way to real fame, his LA apartment is stunningly beautiful—though most of his friends here would think it's pompous and out of touch, but that's neither here nor there. What does it matter what they think, anyway? </p><p> </p><p>But still. This is Spot talking, not the mismatched group of near-strangers that greeted him inside. This is Spot, who despite miles and years—and what Race had <em>thought</em> was a fairly convincing social media presence—can take one look at his wide smile and know what's really behind it. He grunts a thanks when Spot returns and hands him another bottle, putting it to his lips and draining half of it before the words are spilling out. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I'll bite. What do you mean?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?” Spot’s next to him on the log again, taking a casual swig of his beer like it hasn’t been five years since he’s been home, since they’ve sat like this.</p><p> </p><p>“Damn you, Spot,” He groans, dropping Spot's arm to lean forward and brace his elbows against his knees. “You know what.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot sighs, and he’s quiet for so long that Race thinks he might ignore the question completely.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got everyone pretty well fooled, I’ll give ya that,” He says, and Race scoots closer and wraps his arm up again, if only for his warmth. He thought he remembered how cold the winters are here, but there’s nothing like experiencing it. His heart flutters when Spot lifts his arm and drapes it over his shoulders, holding him tight against his side. “But you can’t fool me.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s true. It’s true and Race knows it without hesitation; knows his happiness is more performative than some of the roles he takes. Knows that Spot or Jack or Medda would walk through his LA apartment and never realize it was his, because it contains no trace of his actual personality, only sleek modern furniture and pretentious art pieces. And he <em>knows </em>it’s all for show, knows that he’s always on display, always playing a character even when he’s not being paid. Out there, he’s Anthony Higgins, and it’s just fucking <em>true </em>that the smile drops when he steps over the threshold. It’s true that he misses dancing on a stage so much it almost hurts, that he deliberately avoids auditioning for musicals because he knows how much he’d love it. </p><p> </p><p>But he’s home, and at home, he doesn’t have to be Anthony. He can be Race, or Racer or Tony or any combination of them all and Spot will still see him for him. Spot will still look straight through the back-pocket smile, still reach right into his chest and pull out the truth without ever saying the actual words. And it takes a moment for him to sort through his feelings about that, for him to realize that there isn’t a pit in his stomach for the first time since he landed at JFK. No, it feels <em>good.</em> It feels good to be here wrapped up in Spot’s arms, heart thudding and head a little light from the alcohol, and he finally lets that good feeling settle inside of him. Lets himself start to understand that comfort and happiness can coexist, and that maybe he’s been wrong all along about what those words mean.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer,” Spot’s voice is gentle as he squeezes Race’s shoulder. Race hums a response, turning his body toward Spot so he can nuzzle into the side of his neck. He giggles quietly at Spot’s sharp inhale when Race’s cold nose meets his warm skin and Race could swear the sigh he lets out sounds close to content. “You okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Race sighs, letting his eyes drift closed and he means it, he really does. “Yeah, Spotty, I’m good.”</p><p> </p><p>Race doesn’t know how long they sit like that, in comfortable silence by the dwindling fire, but when he opens his eyes again, they’re alone. He can’t help but shoot a glance toward the woods, and he’s glad it’s dark because the flush that colors his cheeks is surely spectacular as he remembers just what they used to get up to amongst those trees. He wonders if Spot’s remembering the same thing, because he tightens his grip on his shoulder and turns his head to speak lowly into Race’s ear.</p><p> </p><p>“Wanna get outta here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thought you’d never ask.”</p><p> </p><p>The walk to Spot’s house isn’t far, but they’re a little drunk and Race’s toes are blocks of ice in his classy boots that aren’t suited to these temperatures. But Spot keeps him upright (doesn’t he always) on the walk, and as he unlocks the door with Race leaning all of his weight against his back, long arms wrapped around Spot’s waist. The house is small but inviting, and most of all it’s warm and it smells like Spot. It smells like Spot, and it’s suddenly overwhelming how much they <em>both </em>smell like campfire. Spot heads to the bedroom to change and grabs Race some sweatpants, which he changes into right there in the living room before tugging on the tee that also smells like Spot. He’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the way Spot’s eyes roam over him as he does, and there’s half a second where he wishes he’d skipped the shirt.</p><p> </p><p>But then he’s grabbing Spot’s hand and pulling him to the couch and Spot goes without hesitation, always happy to be led by him. They topple onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs and drunken giggles, and after a fair amount of squirming and settling, Race finds himself tucked into the length of Spot’s body, one leg slung over his hips as he rests his head on Spot’s chest, which is somehow even more comfortable now than it was on prom night. Spot tugs down the blanket from the back of the couch, covering them haphazardly but it doesn’t matter, Spot’s plenty warm enough for them both. It’s late, how late Race doesn’t really know but it doesn’t matter either, not when Spot’s fingers run through Race’s curls, untangling them gently as he teases him for being so cold, still, for losing his tolerance in those years of California sunshine. </p><p> </p><p>It’s close to two am—turns out there’s a clock on the wall—when Spot finally gives in, and if Race is honest Spot’s been talking in his sleep for a while, now. It’s achingly cute, really, the way Spot can’t hang like he used to, but Race supposes that makes sense; he did work the early shift at the coffee shop, after all. And Race isn’t far behind him, all the adrenaline and nerves of the day catching up to the exhaustion at last but he wills his eyes to stay open for just a few more minutes. A few more minutes of this, this peace and protection and safety that Spot offers without even meaning to.</p><p> </p><p>The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that maybe, just maybe, being comfortable wouldn’t be so bad.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. and the road not taken looks real good now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! This and the last two are roughly 2k words each, so more manageable. 🥰 pls enjoy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Consciousness comes to Race in slow drags, bit by little bit. It takes him a minute to remember where he is, and he squints into the bright sun streaming through the windows of Spot’s living room. He’s alone on the couch, and he’s clearly been covered up and tucked in with the blanket, but he swears that some of Spot’s warmth still lingers on the cushions. He smooths a hand over it while his brain catches up, startled when he glances at the clock and realizes it’s almost noon already. He pushes himself up to a sitting position with a quiet groan; by the time he adjusts to east coast time, he’ll be back in LA.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning, sunshine,” </p><p> </p><p>Race’s head whips around toward the kitchen, just off of the open living room. His face splits into an easy smile at the sight of Spot, pouring coffee so casually, like he’s used to seeing Race first thing in the (admittedly very late) morning. He stretches his arms over his head with a yawn.</p><p> </p><p>“Morning,” He mumbles, standing to fold the blanket just like at home and lay it across the couch. Spot jerks his head toward the hall that leads to the bedrooms.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s a couple extra toothbrushes in the drawer in the bathroom.”</p><p> </p><p>Race snorts but heads there anyway, grateful for the chance to clean up a bit before he invades Spot’s personal space again. It’s funny, he thinks, how he’s been home for all of one day and that’s already a given. Spot waits for him to come back to the kitchen before pouring his cup and topping it off with a splash of cream—just like his mama—and handing it to him when Race slides onto the barstool at the counter. They sip their coffee in comfortable silence for a few minutes and Race notices Spot’s hair is damp. It’s that small difference, that comfortable glimpse into Spot’s domestic life that makes the gears in Race’s head start turning, faster than he can keep up and his mouth runs ahead of his brain and the question he means to ask comes out more like an accusation.</p><p> </p><p>“So why are you still single?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot huffs a laugh, and if he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. “Wow, not even gonna try to be subtle huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Subtle isn’t really my style.”</p><p> </p><p>“Too true,” He mutters. Race nudges him in the ribs and he squirms away, grumbling. “I dunno, I mean, it’s not like I’ve been a monk.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Obviously,” Race drawls, rolling his eyes. “Look at you.” Spot scoffs, humble as ever; Race fights back the smile that comes so easily at the faint flush on Spot’s cheekbones. </p><p> </p><p>“I dunno, Racer,” He says again, not meeting his eyes. He’s so close Race can smell his soap, and he reaches out just enough to brush his fingertips along the hem of Spot’s t-shirt, waiting for him to go on. After a moment, he does. “I’ve dated. Couple of ‘em were even sorta serious,” He admits with a shrug, and Race tries to ignore the prickle down his spine at that thought. “But it never really felt… right. One of us always ended it before it could go too far.”</p><p> </p><p>Race cocks an eyebrow. “One of us?” </p><p> </p><p>“Fine,” Spot concedes, finally glancing up to look Race in the eyes again and <em>God</em>, have they always been this dark? “I always ended it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?” Race asks again, softly, still holding Spot’s shirt lightly in his fingers. Spot looks at him, dark eyes boring into blue, and he’s <em>so</em> close and Race wants to know the answer just as much as he’s terrified to hear it. Maybe Spot knows that, maybe he’s just as scared to say it because his gaze breaks away, and the disappointment Race feels in his chest is somehow louder than his attempted rational thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>“What about you?”</p><p> </p><p>Race gapes. “What about me?”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve dated,” Spot states, simply. Race blinks.</p><p> </p><p>“That doesn’t sound like a question,”</p><p> </p><p>“It isn’t,” Spot shrugs, and he’s still standing <em>just there</em>; hasn’t moved closer, but he hasn’t backed up, either. “I know you have.”</p><p> </p><p>Race feels that cheeky grin slip into place, the one he has stashed away at all times, ready for the flash of a camera at a moment’s notice. “Been keepin’ tabs on me, Spotty?”</p><p> </p><p>“What, like it’s hard?” Spot teases. “I know I probably get lost among your million followers on Insta–”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” Race mutters, fisting more of Spot’s soft shirt in his hand and daring to tug him just a little closer. He’s quiet, looking down at his hand, at the way Spot’s standing just between his knees where he sits on the barstool, and he’s not even sure he’s speaking loud enough for Spot to hear but he says it anyway. “You never get lost.”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>“You—fuck, Spotty,” Race sighs, and he owes it to him, he knows he does, so he drags his eyes upward until he’s looking into Spot’s eyes and he sets his mug down on the counter and forces himself to say it with more conviction. “You never get lost.”</p><p> </p><p>Whatever Spot was expecting, Race is pretty sure that wasn’t it because his eyes widen a fraction and his lips part in surprise, and Race can’t help the way the motion draws his eyes immediately. He can’t ignore the way Spot takes a small, cautious step closer; the way Spot’s hips brush against his thighs as he does and they’re almost the same height again and Race’s breath hitches in his throat when Spot lifts a hand and gently cups his jaw. Spot’s eyes are on his lips and Race swallows hard, trying <em>so hard</em> to stay still as Spot brushes a thumb over his bottom lip and Race just <em>can’t </em>stop himself anymore. He uses his grip in Spot’s shirt to pull him in and Spot’s lips crash into his as Spot's hand snakes up into his hair in a long-dormant habit. Race almost sighs in relief as the kiss shifts quickly to deep and demanding, Race holding Spot in place with his knees as his arms move to lock around his neck. </p><p> </p><p>There’s not even a flicker of a thought as to whether this is the right thing to do, whether they’ll both regret this as Spot’s other hand slides around Race’s waist and tugs him to the edge of the stool, flush against him and Race groans quietly into the kiss. He can feel Spot’s fingers up underneath his t-shirt, brushing lightly across his stomach and he shudders, locking his legs together behind Spot’s back. And that’s the permission Spot’s waiting for, apparently, because his hand slips from Race’s hair and he picks him up with ease, grinning against Race’s lips when he gasps, surprised but pleasantly so and he focuses on holding on, on kissing up the side of Spot’s neck as he carries him down the hall to the bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>It’s only after, when they catch their breath and Spot pulls him close a little less urgently, a little more like they’ve got all the time in the world, that Race really takes a look around. The house is small but not tiny, laid out exactly the way Race remembers from when it belonged to Spot’s grandmother. He can't help but smile a little at the thought of her, despite the accompanying pang in his chest. </p><p> </p><p>The décor is the biggest difference, all sleek, clean lines and neutral hues. There are still rustic touches here and there, like the stunning dark wooden dresser in his bedroom, and the gorgeous, clearly handmade coffee table Race noticed in the living room.They’re beautiful, and he mumbles as much into Spot’s neck as he curls into him. Spot chuckles, a low rumble that Race feels through his chest and he’s pretty sure he never wants to be any further away from him, ever again.</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, I made them.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>made </em>them?” Race chokes out, propping himself up on an elbow to get a better look at the dresser, as though that will help this make sense. Spot laughs again.</p><p> </p><p>“I told you,” He says with a shrug, and he looks so relaxed that it’s almost too easy for Race to lie back down, wrap an arm over his torso and rest his head again. “The early shift at the coffee shop gives me plenty of time to do what I love.”</p><p> </p><p>Race resists the urge to make a joke at that, saying instead, “And what you love is to… make furniture? Why didn’t I know about this?”</p><p> </p><p>“I guess ‘cause you’re not here, Racer,” Spot says softly, and Race knows there’s no malice behind it but it stings anyway, because he’s right. He’s right and Race knows he only has himself to blame. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Race says suddenly, understanding clicking in his brain like a puzzle. “The signs for my mom.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“The signs you dropped off yesterday to my mom, you made those.”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmhmm,” Spot hums, nodding. “With the new kids’ names.” </p><p> </p><p>The fact that Spot knew his new siblings’ names before he did—and that he spent his free time fashioning personalized signs for their bedroom doors, and Race <em>has</em> to assume he did it free of charge—is almost too much to handle. It’s so tender, so achingly familiar and sweet that it revives that guilt sitting deep in his stomach, and he can’t help but glance at the clock on the bedside table. <em>Shit. </em>It’s well into the afternoon, now, and he can only imagine the scene at home is frantic and chaotic as Medda tries to prepare for the party tonight. Jack should be arriving anytime now, and Race knows he has to go.</p><p> </p><p>He turns his head to press a kiss to Spot’s bare chest, closing his eyes to focus all of his senses on how this feels; wants to burn it into his skin’s memory the way that night under the bleachers lives inside of him. Spot’s hand moves to gently cradle the back of his head and it nearly shatters his willpower. But he inhales deeply and presses up into a sitting position, lips tugging into a smile automatically as he looks down at Spot.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotta go,” He says, softly, reluctantly. </p><p> </p><p>Spot nods and sits up, reaching out to smooth Race’s curls out of his eyes and Race’s heart aches in his chest with how badly he wants to stay. He leans in and kisses him once more before he makes himself get out of bed and find his clothes. Spot follows suit and soon they’re making the chilly trek back to Vince’s house, to Spot’s truck parked in the snow-covered grass. Race stifles a grin when he sees the new layer of mud on Spot's tires, and he knows that'll be gone by tonight. Spot drives him home slowly with an arm slung over his shoulders and Race curled into his side, just like old times. He’s reluctant to get out once they reach Medda’s house, but then he catches a glimpse of Katherine’s sleek sedan in the driveway and he knows he can’t wait any longer. </p><p> </p><p>Spot doesn’t leave when Race gets out, and he rolls down the window when Race walks around the truck.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re coming tonight, right?” He asks, and it’s a testament to their bond that he’s not ashamed of the hopefulness in his voice. Spot nods as though it’s obvious, and the confirmation that their time together isn’t quite over is enough, for now. He leans down and kisses him quickly, unable to keep the silly grin off his face when he pulls away. “Don’t be late.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t dream of it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. we could just ride around</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Nothing to say really other than I plan to have the last chapter up on Wednesday &amp; have this wrapped up by Christmas. Oh! And pls take a second and look at <a href="https://amscraypunk.tumblr.com/post/637709127254179840/tis-the-damn-season-chapter-1-amscraypunk">this beautiful moodboard</a> for this story! It's so pretty and really captures the essence of this fic, I love it so much. Anyway chapter four here we go</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Spot’s not late. Of course he’s not.</p><p> </p><p>But the party is still in full swing by the time he arrives, and Race isn’t sure if it’s a coincidence that he’s closest to the front door when he knocks. He grins wide as he opens the door.</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty! There you a–oh, hello,” Race stumbles over his words, admittedly taken aback by the unexpected addition standing to Spot’s left. Finch, the teenager from the coffee shop, stands with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. He looks nice, Race notes absently, in a fitted sweater and dark jeans, even if he looks a little bored and annoyed. Race is starting to wonder if that’s just the way he looks all the time. “Are you here f–”</p><p> </p><p>“Finchieee!” </p><p> </p><p>Race jumps at the sound from the stairs behind him, where Jojo is hurrying toward them, looking positively adorable in Race’s favorite royal blue sweater that makes his eyes pop—Race had bonded quickly with Jojo and Mush that afternoon once they realized they could share clothes. Race watches, feeling like he’s the last one to get the punchline, as Jojo makes a beeline for Finch and all but tackles him in a hug, throwing his arms recklessly around his neck. Finch cracks a smile that for the first time looks genuine as he holds Jojo tightly, turning his head to peck his cheek. It’s so cute Race almost <em>has</em> to look away, and he lets out a laugh he didn’t realize he was holding in at the way Spot’s watching him, almost smugly. He steps out of the way to let them all in, shaking his head as Jojo takes Finch by the hand and drags him through the party.</p><p> </p><p>“So <em>that’s </em>why you and my mom talk so much,” Race accuses as he takes Spot’s coat and hangs it in the closet. Spot laughs, and Race realizes he was so caught off guard by Jojo’s surprise guest that he didn’t notice how amazing Spot looks in <em>his </em>fitted black sweater. He takes a moment to appreciate it, reaching for his hand. “What, is Finch like your barista protegé or something?”</p><p> </p><p>“Something like that,” Spot says as he squeezes Race’s hand. Race leads him through the living room to the kitchen and grabs them both a drink from the fridge. He leans his back against the counter, grateful for the brief respite from the crowded living room that’s growing louder by the minute.</p><p> </p><p>“Seriously though,” Race presses, hooking a finger into Spot’s belt loop to tug him close. Spot stands in front of him and sets his drink on the counter so he can brace his hands on either side of Race. “Is Finch, like, a relative or something? A cousin?”</p><p> </p><p>“He’s my little brother,” Spot says simply, and it’s only because Race <em>knows </em>Spot’s an only child, and because he’s intimately familiar with the mentor program Medda is also heavily involved with, that he knows exactly what Spot means. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah,” Race nods in understanding. “And you didn't think to mention that <em>your</em> little brother is dating <em>my</em> little brother?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot shrugs. “Not my business,”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh,” Race nods, grinning. “So when you said there are people here that need you, you meant–”</p><p> </p><p>“Finch, yeah,” Spot’s voice is soft but Race can hear his affection for the boy loud and clear, and it only makes that little voice in his head—the one that’s been there for years, the one that says he made a terrible mistake leaving this man behind—grow a little louder. Before he can follow that thought any further, though, the man of the hour stumbles through the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>“Racerrr–and <em>Spot</em>!” Jack’s voice gives away his tipsiness as it rises in pitch in his surprise at the sight of the two of them together. He crashes into them, one arm slung over each of their shoulders as he drags them into a hug and Race is glad he’s already set down his drink. Jack holds them awkwardly as he sighs happily. “Oh, the gang’s back together again–”</p><p> </p><p>Race squirms under Jack’s weight, grumbling, “Get offa me, Jackie,” at the same time that Spot half-laughs, “Are ya cryin', Cowboy?” Jack lets them go with a <em>pffft </em>sound that conveniently sidesteps Spot’s question, but he keeps a hand on each of their shoulders as he pulls back to look at them. His eyes are twinkling but that could be from the liquor, or maybe it’s the sheer happiness of being back home, surrounded by his loved ones as they celebrate him and his beautiful future wife. </p><p> </p><p>“C’mon,” He says, and his voice sounds a little steadier, suddenly. “Join the party. Spotty, ya gotta meet Kath, you’re gonna love her.”</p><p> </p><p>And when Jack turns on his heel and marches out of the kitchen, presumably in search of his fiancée, it leaves them with no choice but to follow him. Jack tries to steal Spot away almost immediately, but Race sticks close to his side, unwilling to let another minute that he’s home slip by without Spot’s presence. Not now, not when he knows just how early his flight leaves in the morning. Spot <em>does </em>love Katherine, Race can tell, and he honestly thinks you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn’t fall in love with her on sight. Race keeps contact with Spot at all times, whether it’s a hand tucked into Spot’s or in his back pocket, and he doesn’t explain to anyone he meets, just lets them make their own assumptions. He catches his mother’s eye on them more than once, and he knows he blushes when she winks slyly from across the room without a hitch in her conversation. </p><p> </p><p>The party eventually splits itself between the living room and the kitchen, clearing a space in the living room that Jack instantly fills, ever-eager to have all eyes on him. He holds a hand out for Katherine, and Race can almost see why she fell for him when she takes his hand and he smiles down at her. Someone—Medda, he has to assume—adjusts the music to a more reasonable level and then they’re slow dancing and the sight lands surprisingly high up on Race’s list of adorable things he’s witnessed since being back home. A few more couples gradually join them on the makeshift dance floor, and Race somehow isn’t prepared for when Spot nudges him in the ribs and holds out his hand. He blinks, glancing between Spot’s hand and his face for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you asking me to dance?” He asks, rather stupidly and Spot rolls his eyes and smirks.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s ’a matter, don’tcha remember how?”</p><p> </p><p>Even if he didn’t want to dance, the challenge in Spot’s voice would’ve been enough to make him take his hand. But he does want to, and it’s all he can do not to think back to slow dancing at Vince’s house as Spot pulls him close, hands settling on his hips. Race slides his arms around Spot’s neck, stepping toward him until they’re pressed against each other and Race rests his head on Spot’s shoulder as they move. </p><p> </p><p>And even if Race can’t really call this <em>dancing</em>, it feels good to be here with Spot, warm and safe in his arms. In the living room of his mother’s house, surrounded by friends and family and love. One of Spot’s hands moves to splay across the small of his back, pressing him ever closer and Race sighs in contentment. He doesn’t look at the clock, doesn’t want to know how little time is left for him to soak this in. He catches a glimpse of another couple at the edge of the ‘dance floor’ and he has to bury his face in Spot’s shoulder to muffle the squeak he can’t help but let out. Jojo’s arms are wrapped around Finch’s neck much in the same way Race’s are around Spot, and he plays absently with Finch’s curls as they dance. And it’s heartbreakingly cute, the way they move and sway, chatting easily like it’s just another day.</p><p> </p><p>And for them, Race supposes it is. For them, it <em>is </em>just another day, another party at Jojo’s mom’s house. And maybe they’ll last, maybe they won’t, it’s impossible to tell, and maybe this dance will just become a memory they take out every now and then, polish off and admire before tucking it safely away again. Spot gives his hip a gentle squeeze, a silent question that Race doesn’t answer except by nuzzling into Spot’s neck, which is really all the answer he needs to give. </p><p> </p><p>“You okay?” Spot asks quietly. Race hums, knowing he can't really answer that, right now.</p><p> </p><p>“Finch and Jojo are really cute together,” He says instead, and Spot’s chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Kinda remind me of someone else I know,”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah? Who would that be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty, c’mon,” Race scoffs, rolling his eyes even as he grins. “Us, obviously.”</p><p> </p><p>“Us,” Spot repeats, almost like he doesn’t mean to, almost like he’s talking to himself rather than to Race. </p><p> </p><p>But Race hears it, and the way it sounds from Spot’s lips is more dangerous than anything, the way it winds itself around his heart and stays there. <em>Us</em>. Race and Spot, Spot and Race. The idea that even though they’ve been apart, even though they’re not dating now, that there’s still an <em>us</em>, a bond, a connection inherent between them that’s so obvious apparently everyone can see it, it’s a little more than Race thinks he can take right now. It feels so good to be here, not just in town but in his mom’s house, watching Jack dance with Katherine, watching Medda watching them, watching him. There’s not a doubt in Race’s mind that this is the most content he’s felt in years. The twinkling lights on the tree, the soft holiday music, Spot’s arms around him, and suddenly there’s a flash in Race’s mind, a split second where he can see it: see himself with Spot at an engagement party—but this one’s for them, this one celebrates <em>their </em>happiness, their joy that they found their way back to each other. And Race feels it in his gut, wants it so badly he thinks it might swallow him whole and it all feels <em>too good</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He lifts his head, and the sudden movement prompts Spot’s fingers to tighten slightly around his waist.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hey can we–” Race swallows, trying to figure out what exactly it is that he wants, that he needs. He just knows he can’t take another minute here. “Can we just get outta here for a bit?”</p><p> </p><p>“Get outta–”</p><p> </p><p>“Here, like, can we go for a drive or something? I just can’t–” He cuts off, because he’s not exactly sure <em>what </em>he can’t do, but Spot doesn’t need any more explanation. He nods without hesitation, dropping Race’s waist only long enough to find his hand, and the feeling makes Race’s heart clench in his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Race supposes he’s lucky that Spot’s not much of a drinker—and that he’s an incredibly good driver—as he backs out of the makeshift parking lot of Medda’s lawn, avoiding the other cars with ease. The weight in his chests lessens slightly as they drive, and Spot’s got one hand on his thigh and he can breathe a little easier, now. He shifts closer to Spot on the bench seat, and Spot lifts his hand to wrap his arm over Race’s shoulders. He doesn’t ask him where they’re going, doesn’t even ask what’s wrong, just holds him close and drives. It’s only when Race sees the edge of the church that he knows where they’re going.</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty, pull over,”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“There,” He says, pointing to the parking lot that sits between the church and the high school. He snorts when Spot flips on the turn signal before he pulls in and parks, leaving the truck running. They’re both quiet for several minutes, and the silence that would be awkward with anyone else is anything but.</p><p> </p><p>“Hard to believe we were ever that young, isn’t it?” Spot muses, and Race thinks there’s something like fondness in the way he gazes at the brick exterior of the high school. Race watches him until Spot turns to look at him, then shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Nah, it’s easy,”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“It is for me,” Race says, reaching up to hold Spot’s hand where it’s draped over his shoulder. Their fingers entwine lightly, almost lazily, and combined with a glance at the clock on the dash it sends a rush of panic through Race’s stomach. He’s leaving <em>so </em>early tomorrow morning, he really should already be asleep. Should already have his bag packed. But he can’t make himself leave, can’t make himself detach from Spot’s side, not when it feels this good. He laughs quietly. “It’s been almost too easy, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>“Just that… I dunno, Spotty, I’ve felt like I’m back in high school this whole weekend,” He sighs, and he notices that his free hand is idly toying with the hem of Spot’s coat. It’s that accidental contact, that comfort he feels with Spot that he’s never come close to feeling with anyone else and he groans out loud, dropping his head back onto Spot’s arm. “It’s just… it’s too good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Too good? Racer, what–”</p><p> </p><p>“You,” Race says, lifting his head. Spot shifts to get a better look at him, pulling his arm back. Race grabs Spot’s hand in both of his, holding it tightly. “You’re too good. It feels too good to be home, to be around you,” He pauses, brushing a thumb over the back of Spot’s hand as if Spot’s the one who needs soothing. “Be with you.” He finishes quietly, looking down at their hands. Spot’s quiet for a moment, and it’s when his other hand suddenly appears, folding warmly over Race’s cold ones that he finally speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“Tony, tell me what’s wrong.” </p><p> </p><p>“Everything,” Race says, but his voice is more of a whisper and he can hear how close it is to cracking. “Everything is wrong, ‘cause I'm not supposed to want this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Want what, Racer?” Spot’s so calm, so patient and caring and one look into his eyes snaps the last thread of Race’s resolve. It’s obvious, suddenly, how long it’s been since he’s been around someone who actually understands him, because it’s spilling out of him and he’s not sure he could stop it if he tried.</p><p> </p><p>“You! You, this, all of this. The picturesque little town with the dusting of snow, the high school sweetheart who somehow looks better now than they did then, who works at the fucking coffee shop and gives me free coffee just because I used to su–”</p><p> </p><p>“Slow down,” Spot interrupts, giving Race's hands a squeeze to ground him. After a beat, Spot tries a little humor. “That’s not the <em>only </em>reason I gave you free coffee, though.” Race groans.</p><p> </p><p>“You were right, Spotty.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I was,” Spot's voice is so sincere that it actually draws a snort from Race. “About what, though?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm miserable, and I dunno how to fix it,” Race admits, and he <em>sounds </em>miserable. “All I ever wanted was to leave… And you were the only one that <em>always </em>supported me, did you know that? Never tried to get me to stay. And… I always thought things would fall into place once I left, but they didn't. And then college wasn't what I wanted either, so I left and started auditioning, and every time I booked a job it felt good… but never good enough,” He adds softly. Spot doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently like he always does and after a moment, Race goes on. “So I kept trying and for <em>years </em>now I’ve convinced myself that I’m happy with where I am, with where I’m going. But... you were right, and I’m not.”</p><p> </p><p>“Racer…”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong with me, Spot? Why don’t I want the things I’m supposed to want?” His voice comes out small and wavering. He bites his lip, fighting down the well of emotion in his throat. The last thing he wants is to cry; especially about this, especially here, in front of Spot, <em>because </em>of Spot. Because he’s perfect, and he’s always been, and Race left anyway. </p><p> </p><p>“Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m supposed to be dating models, vacationing on yachts and going to after-parties–”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s not you, Racer, that’s never been you.” Spot’s right, again, but Race can’t process that right now. </p><p> </p><p>“What else can I do, Sean? Pack up and move home, teach at the dance center? Spend my days off reading books at the coffee shop?” He swallows hard, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall. “And, what, we… we sell your furniture to stuck-up New York socialites for three times the price?” His voice breaks and he drops his head, the image of their joined hands blurring as the tears slip free.</p><p> </p><p>Spot huffs a quiet laugh, and Race doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until he feels Spot’s fingers, warm as always, tipping his chin up, forcing him to look at him. His hand stays, gently holding his jaw and Race just knows no one has ever looked at him like this before.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, maybe, yeah,” Spot’s voice is soft and Race could <em>swear </em>he just admitted he wants Race back. His heart thuds in his chest and Spot cocks his head slightly, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a little half smile. “Would that be so bad?”</p><p> </p><p>Race can’t answer that, <em>can’t </em>vocalize the truth he feels in his chest because he can picture it so clearly and if he wasn’t already sure he hasn’t been happy in years, he is now. Because the way it makes him feel—the way he <em>always </em>feels when he lets himself imagine a life with Spot—is much more than it even was when they were teenagers. It’s so much more than he ever imagined it could be and the only thing he can think to do is to twist his hands into Spot’s leather jacket and drag him into a kiss. And Spot’s lips are full and soft as ever but it’s not gentle, it can’t be, not when they’ve both been waiting so long for this. For just one of them to crack and admit that they were wrong, that they’re <em>not </em>better off apart, as ‘friends,’ as if they could ever go back to that. Spot’s turned completely sideways in his seat to face him and he’s cradling the back of Race’s head with one strong hand and Race lets out a soft whimper, completely undone by the tender gesture.</p><p> </p><p>As good as it feels, as good as it is to be held like this, <em>wanted </em>like this, Race makes himself pull away. Spot’s hand doesn’t move, though, so he rests his forehead against Spot’s, drawing shaky breaths. This isn’t fair. It’s not fair to either of them, but it’s certainly not fair to Spot. Who does Race think he is? Like he can just swoop in for the weekend, stir up old memories and feelings and leave Spot behind, <em>again</em>? No, it’s not fair and Race won’t do it, won’t let himself do that again, even if he wants nothing more than to lift his chin and get lost in Spot the way he did at the party, at Spot’s house. The way he’s been lost in him since sophomore year of high school, if he’s really honest with himself. So he takes another breath, still shaky but deep and steadying, and tilts his chin up once more. There’s gentleness in this kiss, and undeniable, long-standing affection and when he pulls away this time, Race thinks he can feel his heart crack in two. </p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to look up, into Spot’s eyes, and he’s not surprised to find his sadness reflecting back at him. Not surprised that Spot has followed his train of thought without him saying a word. Spot’s eyes search his for a moment and he smiles, that soft, small smile Race isn’t sure he’s ever shown anyone else and Spot shifts so his back is against the seat, wrapping Race up in one arm again.</p><p> </p><p>“Spotty–”</p><p> </p><p>“I know, Racer,” Spot says, and Race doesn’t doubt him. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Race sighs and lays his head on Spot’s shoulder. At this rate, he’ll be lucky to get any sleep at all before he has to catch his flight. His voice comes out small, but he knows Spot hears him. He always does.</p><p> </p><p>“Can you take me home?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot turns his head to press a kiss to his temple before he briefly removes his arm to put the truck in gear. He puts it back immediately and Race lets himself cling to him for the ride.</p><p> </p><p>“I gotcha, Tony.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. and it always leads to you and my hometown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is it, y'all, I'm so excited to share this. Happy holidays!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The drive back to Medda’s is short and quiet, because what else is there to say? Race is leaving, again, and Spot’s staying, again and maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be. Spot leaves his truck idling on the street and walks him to the door, still holding him close. Race pulls Spot into a tight, lingering hug, letting one hand slip into Spot’s silky hair and he has to pull away, because he doesn’t want to cry again. So he gently cups Spot’s face, and he closes his eyes because he knows he’s not strong enough to look, and kisses him softly, one last time. He keeps them closed when he pulls away and turns to open the door, his voice quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“Bye, Spotty.”</p><p> </p><p>“G’night, Racer.”</p><p> </p><p>Race tries not to linger on the fact that Spot didn’t say <em>goodbye</em> as he takes in the scene in the living room. It’s empty of people, but it’s got that distinctive, buzzing energy that a party leaves behind, not to mention the scattered beer bottles and paper plates. The twins are with a sitter for the night, so Jojo and Mush are sleeping in their room so Jack and Katherine don’t have to drive back to the city. But the couch is empty, and Race can’t even bring himself to change out of his party clothes as he shrugs out of his coat and makes a beeline for the couch. He forces himself not to watch out the bay window as Spot drives away and he curls onto his side, digging his phone out of his pocket and tossing it onto the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>He should’ve packed, should’ve set his alarms already and arranged a cab, or maybe even rented a car. But he’s been in denial ever since he got here, ever since he started his day with a hug from his mom and a coffee from Spot. So his bag is half-packed and he’s pretty sure he’s never getting his sweater back from Jojo or his lace-up leather pants from Mush—which is fine, really—and he lets out a frustrated little groan as he rolls onto his back. It’s late, even if he didn’t have to be up in a few hours, but sleep is just about the furthest thing from his mind. He stares at the ceiling, not really seeing it as his mind starts to wander. He’s always thought it was brave, what he did, leaving home, leaving his support system. And he’s proud of what he’s accomplished, he’d never deny that. But he also can’t deny that a small part of him was always disappointed in Spot for staying; he can’t deny that he felt like it was a little cowardly.</p><p> </p><p>But now, now he thinks he may have had it backwards. Maybe Spot’s been the brave one all along. After all, doesn’t it take something special, a certain type of courage to be content? To take the job that isn’t your dream but pays the bills, to dedicate your time to a kid that’s not yours, not family at all but needs you anyway; to keep your passions and talents to yourself and <em>not </em>share them with the world, and be happy about it? What is that, if not courageous? No, he’s sure now that Spot’s never been anything close to a coward; Race only wished he was, so he didn’t have to feel like one, himself. With a great sigh he turns onto his side again and, knowing sleep won’t come, reaches for his phone.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>It’s still dark when Race startles awake, only just now realizing that he drifted off, after all. The room spins, the way it does when your nap is interrupted halfway through, and he frowns at his phone. If it wasn’t his alarm that woke him, then what– </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Tap, tap.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Race’s head whips around toward the window and he gasps, trying to force his brain to process what he’s seeing. </p><p> </p><p>“Spot?” Race’s voice is a whisper—not like it matters, considering Spot’s on the other side of the glass, but it’s definitely him and he visibly brightens when Race sees him. He jerks his head toward the front door and Race scrambles to his feet, crossing the living room in a few strides and opening the door as quietly as he can manage. Spot steps gratefully inside, and Race feels a stab of guilt as he wonders how long he’s been out there, because his cheeks are rosy and the tip of his nose is pink and it just might top that list of adorable things. “Spotty, what–”</p><p> </p><p>“Listen, I’ve been thinking–”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you even been to bed? What the–” Race reaches for him automatically, and Spot grabs his hands and holds them still.</p><p> </p><p>“Racer, listen,” His voice is quiet but urgent and Race shuts his mouth. Spot waits one more second before he seems to decide Race won’t interrupt. “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier tonight—last night, whatever, you know what I mean. About how I always supported you, never tried to change your mind about leaving? You need to know that I did that because I believed in you, Tony, because I would watch you dance and watch you act and sing and I knew it would be selfish to ask you to stay, to ask you not to share those gifts. I <em>knew </em>there was a place in that world, just waiting for you.” He pauses to take a breath and Race gapes, dumbfounded. “And I knew how badly you wanted to get out and get away from New York… that you wouldn’t have been happy with a small town life, even with me,” Race opens his mouth to argue but Spot shakes his head. “That even though you loved me—and I know you did, I knew it then, too, I never doubted that—if you stayed, you’d eventually resent me and I… I couldn’t have handled that, Racer. I wasn’t gonna put you–put us in that position. So I didn’t say anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Spot–”</p><p> </p><p>“But maybe I should have,” Spot goes on as though Race didn’t speak at all, and Race thinks he might have heard a floorboard creak over his head, but Spot’s still talking and he doesn’t want to miss a word. “Maybe I should have said something, maybe I should’ve offered to go with you or, hell, I could’ve at least asked, right? Even just once. But I didn’t and I’m so sorry, Racer. I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t know what?” Race’s voice wavers and his heart is absolutely aching, watching Spot be so vulnerable, so open. He’s not sure he’s heard him speak this much at one time since… well, ever.</p><p> </p><p>“How much you needed me,” Spot answers, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, and God, maybe it is. Race bites at the inside of his lip but it doesn’t stop his eyes from filling with tears again, anyway. “And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to realize it but I can’t let you leave without telling you.” And Spot leaves it open, gives him a chance to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Telling me what, Spotty?” </p><p> </p><p>Spot just looks at him for a moment, then he lifts a hand and cups Race’s jaw. “That I need you, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Need. He said <em>need,</em> as in present tense. Spot needs him. He’s here and the sun isn’t even up and he’s spilling his guts and Spot <em>needs him</em> the way he needs Spot. His voice comes out as a little squeak.</p><p> </p><p>“You do?”</p><p> </p><p>Spot smiles now, brushing his thumb over Race’s cheekbone. “God, you’re cute. But yeah, I do. Always have, still do. So just… I know you’re leavin' and that’s fine, I won’t ask you to stay–”</p><p> </p><p>“Sean–”</p><p> </p><p>“But if I know you like I think I do, you don’t want me to. So instead, let me ask… if I can come with you.” </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, those words hit harder than anything else Spot’s said and Race is stunned. Spot’s still holding his face, still standing in front of him at the bottom of the stairs and all Race can do is lean in and kiss him. He distantly registers a quiet gasp from the top of the stairs, and frantic shushing but really, it’s lost to the rushing in his ears as Spot makes a surprised sound against his lips and kisses him back. As amazing as it feels, Race pulls back before either of them are ready, because he’s got things to say, too.</p><p> </p><p>“Ton–”</p><p> </p><p>“I canceled my flight.”</p><p> </p><p>“You <em>what</em>–”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m staying, Spotty,” Race is beaming, Spot’s face still only inches from his and it’s <em>so </em>satisfying to watch his eyes widen in shock. “At least for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>“What–what changed your mind?” Spot asks, and he sounds a little breathless. Race shrugs.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you know, the typical hometown obligations. I’ve got some free time, there’s a wedding to plan, I’ve got a few new siblings I wanna get to know,” He pauses there, grinning when he hears a barely-muffled squeak from upstairs. “Thought maybe I’d audition for a Broadway show, or two…” He trails off and Spot lifts an eyebrow. Race giggles. “Okay, and maybe there’s a guy,”</p><p> </p><p>“Just a guy, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mmhmm,” Race grins, nodding. “A pretty incredible guy I’d have to be insane to leave again.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm, well, that’s convenient,” Spot says thoughtfully. Race cocks his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>“‘Cause I’m almost positive your LA friends wouldn’t like me,”</p><p> </p><p>Race laughs. “Spot, my LA friends don’t even like <em>me.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“They’re idiots, then.” Spot murmurs, snaking an arm around Race’s waist to pull him close.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s true,” Race concedes. “But I don’t care.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, ‘cause <em>you </em>like me,” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s one way to put it,”</p><p> </p><p>“How would you put it, then?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, I dunno, Racer,” Spot sighs, rolling his eyes indulgently. “Maybe you weren’t listening—which, honestly, wouldn’t be that surprising—ut I’d say it sounds more like I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Race wants to tease him, wants to come up with something silly but he can’t, can’t stop the smile from spreading. And it’s not the back-pocket smile—it’s much too wide, the photographer would tell him to pull back, but he can’t and he doesn’t want to. So he keeps smiling as he hooks his arms around Spot’s neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Convenient,” He says softly, with enough of a pause that Spot’s eyebrow starts to go up again. “‘Cause I love you, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Spot lets out a sigh that sounds relieved, and Race doesn't even have time to wonder how Spot thought he'd say anything else before they're kissing again. And it feels just like it should, warm and safe and comfortable even as it makes his knees weak. Race can't help but smile into the kiss when he hears the hushed whispers floating down the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>“Jojo <em>shh</em>, you're gonna wake Mama–”</p><p> </p><p>“God, Smalls, I'm sorry that I have <em>feelings</em>–”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my God–”</p><p> </p><p>“How are you <em>not </em>crying?!”</p><p> </p><p>Race holds it together until Spot pulls back, and then he drops his head onto Spot’s shoulder and dissolves into quiet giggles. He looks over his shoulder and waves at Jojo, Smalls, and Mush where they huddle together at the top of the stairs. They wave sheepishly back and Jojo claps his hand over his mouth to stifle another squeak. Race puts a finger to his lips and they start to get up and they look like they might get away with it when–</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Wait!</em>” Mush gasps, disappearing from view only to return seconds later. He tiptoes down the stairs as quickly as he can manage, stopping on the third step from the bottom and extending his arm over their heads. “There, <em>now </em>it’s perfect.”</p><p> </p><p>Race frowns, squinting up in the darkness—and laughs outright.</p><p> </p><p>“Mistletoe, seriously?” Spot deadpans and Race just laughs more as he looks back at him. Spot shrugs, smiling that little half smile Race loves so much. “‘Tis the season, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Race grins, shaking his head as he lets his eyes drop to Spot’s lips again.</p><p> </p><p>“‘Tis the damn season, Spotty.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ahh! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it 🥰 Please let me know what you thought! As always, I'm on tumblr at amscraypunk, oh and if you liked this and wanna cry, go ahead and listen to Gold Rush and Dorothea by Taylor Swift while thinking of Spot's POV in this AU. (sorry/you're welcome) Thanks so much Taylor for breaking my brain, shout out to you. And a huge shout out to YOU, for reading! Thank you!! 💜💜</p><p>If you enjoyed this, check out the other works in this series!</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
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